


Bitter, Gentle Strangers

by icarus_chained



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betrayal, Captivity, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Limbs, Recovery, Repaying Debt, Rescue, Sickness, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-11-26 16:16:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20933105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: Corvo rescues a maimed and captured Whaler from Holger Square. But trust is not automatic. And betrayals still wait.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I noticed a small subgenre of Corvo-rescuing-Whalers, and wanted to try my hand. Um. Possibly a bit of a darker variant?

Tynan thought he was a dream, at first. Well. A nightmare. One of many. Mask like a skull. She’d seen it through a haze of pain and exhaustion. Across the awful, stinking bundle that was the remains of her left arm, strapped across her chest. He’d been unreal. The smells and sounds of the kennels had gone on around her undisturbed. Unbothered by him at all. A hallucination, she’d thought. A bad dream.

If the mask had been an Overseer’s, she’d have given it more credence.

He’d vanished for a while. Gone wherever dreams go. She’d laughed silently to herself. Cracked and broken, lying on the floor of a kennel. Waiting for them to finally open the door and let the wolfhounds in to tear her apart. What was left of her. Or maybe they weren’t planning to rush it. They’d denied her one quick death already. Maybe they’d just leave her here. Wait until the rot in her arm finally got her. Or, void, even the plague. She was one massive open wound right now. A tempting target if ever there was one. Maybe they meant to let the plague have her.

Then they could drop her back in the Flooded District. A warning, maybe. A bloated corpse, or a weeper. A message back to Daud. With love, from Holger Square.

Her throat trembled around another laugh. Another moan. They would, wouldn’t they? Of course they would. The Abbey of the Everyman were all about making examples. It would suit them perfectly. Right down to the ground.

At least she’d be dead by then. Or at least mindless. She hoped.

She’d lost track again for a while. Just … drifting. Everything hurt. Everything throbbed. Her back was a raw mass of agony. Her right wrist was one big bruise, puffy and swollen, where they’d tied her to things. Her _left_ … 

She drifted. Tried not to move. Movement was awful. Sickening. She tried not to. Tried to just breathe. Just exist. Waiting for it to stop.

Hoping, desperately, that it planned to. At some point. _Please_.

So she almost … didn’t notice his return. The nightmare in the mask. She was curled around herself. Half insensible. Trying to ride out something that didn’t want to be ridden. If the dogs … if the noise from the dogs hadn’t stopped, she wouldn’t have known he was coming. The sound of the patrols. The jeers, and the odd wad of spit landing by her head. They stopped. It took her a while to realise it, but she did. So she looked up. Blurred and bleary, struggling to lift her head. She looked up, and there he was.

On the ground, this time. Not the ceiling. He was standing on the floor. Just beyond the cage. Looking in at her. And at …

At the mask. Her whaler’s mask. They’d hung it over the door. So everyone would know what she was. What she’d done, been, to earn … earn this. The mark of a heretic. The only one remaining, once they’d—once they’d cut—the only mark remaining. The only way to know what she’d been. He was looking at it. The man in the mask. And then he looked at her.

Tynan looked back at him. Blankly. She had a vague idea that she ought to be afraid. He was a nightmare, after all. No one wore a mask like that to do good deeds. She should have been afraid. Should have scraped together some terror. She just … couldn’t manage.

Maybe he’d kill her. Maybe he’d be nice, and put her out of her misery.

He pulled a hand from his pocket. Something shiny in it. Keys. Kennel keys. Had he killed the kennel master? No loss, if so. It was so silent now. Had he killed the dogs too? Had he killed _everyone_? The spirit of death, come to Holger Square. That would be a thing. That would be a lovely thing. Maybe she’d thank him, before he killed her.

The door squealed and grated open. She flinched, involuntarily. Nothing good came from that sound. She flinched, and then bit back a cry. Rocked by nausea. By the pain, stark and awful, in her arm. She choked around it. Tried to curl to protect herself. He was above her, by the time she could focus again. He was standing right above her. 

And then crouching. Then _there_. Right there. Next to her. Close enough to touch. That metal skull of his only a foot or so away. Something that wanted to be terror fluttered in her chest. Something struggled upwards, something that remembered wanting to live. She leaned her head away from him. Nothing else. It would only hurt to move anything else, assuming everything wouldn’t hurt in a minute anyway. She tried to curve away from him.

His head tilted. That horrible thing. And then … he reached up. And took … took off the mask.

Tynan breathed out a moan. She couldn’t help herself. She knew that face. Everyone in the city knew that face. Everyone in the Empire, probably. But she, she knew it particularly. She remembered it. From six months ago. From a job gone horribly wrong, and then horribly, _horribly_ right. She’d only been on the outskirts. A scout, backup. But she’d been there. She knew him.

Corvo Attano, the one-time Lord Protector, was crouched above her. In the kennels of fucking Holger Square. A bad dream. A nightmare wearing the mask of death.

Maybe he _had_ killed everyone. Maybe he really had.

He was going to kill her now, too. He knew what her mask meant. Better than anyone. He knew what they’d done. He couldn’t do anything else but kill her. Badly, probably. He’d want to hurt her a bit first. They’d … They’d hurt him. They’d had him in Coldridge. He’d want vengeance for that. For a lot of things. He’d kill her. Of course he would.

And she didn’t … She felt the fight drain out of her. What small shreds of it had been left. She’d spit on Overseers all damned day, cling to some vague scrap of defiance in the face of them, but _him_ …

No. She closed her eyes. And curved her face back towards the floor.

He touched her shoulder. _Lightly_. Barely there. Careful around her wounds. Every muscle in her body bunched. She strangled a moan in her throat. Waiting for the blow. But he only shifted his hand to grip the shoulder carefully. Fingertips and thumb. There wasn’t space to rest his palm without coating it in filth or blood. He tried to raise her back a bit. Without hurting her. She’d swear he was trying not to hurt her.

And then his other hand touched … touched the elbow of her left arm. Above the filthy wad of cloth they’d called a bandage. And she _had_ to move. She had to.

“_No_,” she whispered. Rolling away. Trying to roll. Onto her back. Barely breathing through the agony of it. “Please. Please no.”

The hand on her shoulder arrested her movement. Held her still. She _keened_ at him. Mindless. Nearly mindless. He leaned forward, and her legs scrabbled under her. Trying to kick. Trying to push. Not that. Not again. Not that.

He caught her. Roughly, this time. Both hands, on both her shoulders. Pulled her up, pulled her forward. Got an arm behind her back. Everything _hurt_. Her stomach crawled into her throat. She couldn’t see for the agony of it. And then he pulled her … into something. Pulled her all the way forward. Into his … chest. One arm around her back. One hand cupped at her head. He pulled her in and held her there. Holding. Not hurting. And after a long, blind second, she stopped … 

Stopped fighting. Stopped trying. Just from the … the raw confusion of it. Was he trying to …?

Was he giving her a _hug_?

He held her for a minute or two. Just held her. Letting her tremble. Letting her claw her way through the nausea. He didn’t move. Didn’t do anything. Just crouched there. Holding her against him. Letting the world … stop hammering at her head.

After a minute, when the shudders stopped, when her breathing eased, he spoke.

“I don’t have any sleep darts left,” he rasped. Hoarse and ragged. “I can’t knock you out. Unless you want me to try a choke. It’s … a long way out. It’s going to hurt. A lot.”

That didn’t … make sense. Any of it. The words all lined up. They just didn’t make any sense.

“… Out?” she whispered. Barely daring to. Not understanding. Not wanting to hope.

Even if he only wanted to kill her somewhere else, it would be better than this. Better than _Holger Square_. With their brands and their blades and their cauterising steel.

“They’ll find Campbell soon,” he murmured. “If they haven’t already. Or notice that Martin’s gone. Curnow should have made it out, at least. There’s not a lot of time left. The only way out is through the back. I’ll have to carry you. It … won’t be fun. I’m sorry. Your arm, in particular. It’s going to hurt. And we need to be quiet.”

He wanted … to knock her out. He wanted _permission_ to knock her out. So he could … carry her out of here. Without alerting the entire Abbey in the process. That was … It was so ridiculous. She nearly didn’t know what to do with it. She didn’t know how to _believe_ it. But she laughed anyway. She leaned her head into his chest.

“Knock me out,” she whispered, “or kill me. I really don’t care. So long as I don’t wake up in this cage, I _really_ don’t care.”

He was silent for an endless moment. His arm tight around her shoulders. And then he nodded. She felt his chin brushing her hair. He moved. Shifted sideways, around her, so he was behind her. The arm that had been around her shoulders drifted up. Around her throat. He could kill her like this. He could throttle her to death. Some part of her did shudder at that. Some part of her was screaming in the back of her skull. But she hadn’t been lying. 

If it got her out of here. One way, or another. She really, _really_ didn’t care.

\---

She woke up in a boat. Some … Some time later. A small boat. Small enough to feel the river beneath them. She hadn’t … honestly expected that. Waking. She hadn’t believed it.

She didn’t move. Of course. She wasn’t stupid enough for that. She lay still. Kept her eyes closed. Kept her ears open. 

Tried to take stock of herself.

She hurt, still. Hurt all over. As badly as the cage. Maybe more. She’d been jostled. Moved. Carried, he’d said. All the way out of Holger fucking Square. She could feel blood down her back. Her throat burned. If she tried to talk, she’d rasp. Or strangle. Her arm …

He’d strapped it, she thought. More securely. She could feel the bindings holding it to her chest. The forearm was … It throbbed. Pulses of pain, great sickening waves. It wasn’t the worst it had hurt, since she’d gotten it. Or lost it, rather. There’d been one Overseer who’d taken a lot of pleasure in yanking it. Waving it around. This wasn’t that bad. But it was … close.

The price of freedom, maybe. Or at least … a different sort of death.

“She needs a doctor,” a voice rasped across from her. Strained and exhausted. “Not just elixirs. They might … do for weals. The swelling and the bruises. Even the burns. But there’s infection in that. Rot. She needs more.”

He had … an odd tone. She had experience of it. He was stating a need but not … not in expectation. Not like he thought it would be answered. It wasn’t pleading. It was too stripped, too tired to be pleading. But he wasn’t asking in any real expectation of _getting_. 

The other occupant of the boat heard it too. He was sitting beside her, whoever he was. Only raw will and exhaustion kept her from flinching at his voice.

“… Doctors are hard to come by these days,” he said softly. Warm and rumpled. Sad, and almost ashamed. “Especially for fugitives. Piero’s about the best we’ve got. Which isn’t … an excuse, really. I’m sorry, Corvo. I know we haven’t been kind.”

And who were ‘we’, she wondered. Who were ‘we’, and exactly how unkind had they been? 

How much more so were they likely to be for … uninvited guests?

The Protector waved that away. Placed it neatly and gently aside. His voice was soft. Gentle and tired. “I know, Sam,” he said quietly. “It’s all right. It doesn’t matter. But she … That’s not the sort of wound you can wish away. She needs help.”

‘Sam’, whoever he was, shifted uneasily beside her. “I don’t know as the Admiral will go for that,” he admitted. “Begging your pardon, sir. He doesn’t know her. Who she is, who she might … talk to. Everybody else, they were vetted first. I don’t know that he’ll …”

Let some random torture victim take up their time and their resources. Let some maimed heretic soak up medical care that they apparently hadn’t even offered … offered their Protector. The man they sent out to … what, exactly?

Deal with Campbell, anyway. So a coup. Or a countercoup, technically. Fuck. Was he just out of Coldridge?

Why was he even talking about doctors? What did he want from her that needed her in one piece to manage? Or … at least not on the verge of death, maybe. At least not liable to go at any minute. Something he couldn’t get in the few days or hours she might last on her own?

What did he want from her that needed her somewhat fit?

“And, speaking of knowing, sir,” Sam went on. Hesitantly. “Do … Do _you_ know who she is? I saw the mask you brought with her. Do you know …?”

Tynan fought not to flinch. Fought not to tighten her eyes. So. Everybody in the boat knew what she was, then. Or what she’d been. What she’d done to earn the loss of an arm.

“I know,” said the Lord Protector. Very quietly. “I know.”

She opened her eyes at that. Not entirely by choice. She opened her eyes and stared at him. He was sitting in the back of the boat. Slumped. Exhausted. Unmasked, still. His mask was … lying by hers. He caught her looking at him. Noticed she was awake. He didn’t … She expected a surge of anger. Hatred. Even chill. His expression softened, instead. He ducked his head as though ashamed.

“Oh,” said the man beside her. Sam. Seeing what he was looking at. “Well. Hello there.”

She managed to roll her head slightly. Managed to look up at him. He was … tired too. Rumpled. Friendly looking. Shockingly so, if he did know what she was. His face creased in rueful dismay at the effort it took her to move.

“You’re all right now, miss,” he said warmly. As though he hadn’t been questioning her right to breathe a second ago. By implication, anyway. “You’re a bit banged up, but you’re in safe hands for the moment. Rest easy now.”

Tynan … didn’t dare try to talk. Her throat squeezed even at the thought. She looked back at the Lord Protector instead.

He glanced at Sam, briefly. Tiredly. Then he straightened, a little, and tried to meet her eyes.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” he asked quietly. “We’re not … It doesn’t look like we’ll have access to a doctor. Not easily, anyway. Not where we stay. Is there somewhere … somewhere you know to go? Somewhere you’d be safe.”

Somewhere she … Terror shot through her. Horror. Realisation. Of course. Fuck. How dead was she? How blind and stupid with pain? Of course that was what he needed. 

She was a Whaler. He needed _Daud_.

She closed her eyes again. Pressed away from him, pushed instinctively against the boat floor with her feet. Pushed back against the engine block. The boat rocked slightly at the motion. She wondered … She wondered how far they’d let her get if she tried to roll over the side. If they’d be content to let her drown. But no. Daud had killed his Empress. He needed … He needed someone to tell him where Daud was.

The Abbey could have told him. For an irony. Campbell could have fucking told him. But she doubted he’d been in any mood to let the bastard talk.

So here she was instead. Lucky, lucky her.

There was no way out. Not yet. He was fast enough not to let her drown. But damned if he’d get anything the Abbey didn’t.

“… No,” she managed. A thick, strangled denial from a raw throat. “Nowhere. No.”

If she could rot slowly in a kennel in Holger Square, she could rot slowly wherever he stashed her as well. The promise of a doctor was not … it was _nowhere near_ enough. Not for Daud’s life. Not for everyone she’d left there. He couldn’t have it. No matter what.

A hand touched her arm gently. From the side. The boatman. She nearly flinched out over the side of the boat anyway. The hand caught and steadied her. Kept her prisoner.

“Woah,” the man exclaimed. “Easy there, miss! Take it easy! It’s all right!”

She could have laughed. She could have wept. Of course it wasn’t fucking _all right_.

But she opened her eyes again anyway. A hand touched her knee. So gently. She opened her eyes and looked at him. The Lord Protector. He looked at her so tiredly. A well of grief, of knowing shame. She didn’t dare believe it. She bared her teeth in a sneer.

“There’s nowhere,” she said again. Low and thick. “Drop me wherever you like. It doesn’t matter.”

She was tired. Her arm had jostled. Waves of nausea were rolling through her again. He looked at her so sadly. She bit her lip. Looked away. Clung to the wall of pain, and closed her eyes.

She wasn’t going to show him. She’d never lead him there. Let him do what he liked.

\---

She woke up again in a room. A strange, bare room. Wood floors and walls, bare and cold. Someone’d laid her on a mattress. Bundled blankets around her. She hunched into them. The room smelled like the river. Something else. Oil and machinery. A factory?

Her arm _ached_. Bitter and savage and deep. The rest of her felt … distant. A little floaty. But her arm. Her arm didn’t feel distant at all.

“… We’ve cleaned the wounds,” a voice said from behind her. She flinched. Shot stiff in her blankets. But didn’t turn. The Lord Protector carried on anyway. Soft and sad. “As best we could. With alcohol and elixir. If it works for the plague, it might work for infection. But it didn’t … it didn’t look good. I’m sorry. I don’t know enough to … treat it better. I’ll ask Piero. It’s not safe to show him, but he … he’ll tell you a lot of things. If you ask.”

Tynan didn’t answer him. Didn’t dare. She didn’t look at him either. He waited, for a little bit. And then, recognising her intent, he continued on his own.

“There’s no way up here. Not without … without a mark. Not anymore. That should keep you safe. For now. From scavengers or … weepers. We decided against bringing you to … where we are. You’re close, but not all the way. Sam was adamant that the Admiral wouldn’t allow it. He’d know them better than I would. You’ll be safe enough here until … until you’re better.”

_If_ you’re better. He didn’t say it, but she heard it. Without a doctor, or a medic, she might not get better. Without a mark to protect her, she might get the plague. 

Without strength to protect herself, she might … try his patience. 

Fine, though. She’d tried the Overseers already. She’d tried them all the way to an amputation. Let’s see him do better.

“… I don’t intend to hurt you,” he said. Very softly. A strange note in his voice. He didn’t expect to be believed. She could hear that too. He said it softly anyway. “I don’t … want anything from you. If I knew anywhere safe in this city to bring you, I would. I’m sorry.”

She closed her eyes. Curled up around the arm pulsing against her chest. When she hunched her shoulders, the blankets went over her head. Blocking him out. Shutting him away. He didn’t protest. He didn’t push.

\---

It was night-time this time. When she woke again. Or … sort of woke. Clawed her way upwards. There was something strapped to her chest. Something burning and throbbing and _awful_. She tried to claw away from it. Something was wrapped around her. She struggled her way out of it. Scrabbled at her chest. Pain burst behind her eyes as her fingernails dug in. She keened. She tried to claw faster. Before it overwhelmed her.

Hands took hold of her. Grabbed her arm. Her free arm. Pulled it away. She cried out. Tried to twist her wrist. Wrench free. New pain erupted. Her wrist didn’t like that. She panted desperately. Hearing small noises, little cries. She tried to reach up with her other hand. Pulled it and …

The hands had pushed her over on her side, when she came back again. Her arm rested on the floor. Right arm. A hand rested gently on her forearm. Just enough to keep it from moving. The other brushed hair back from her soaked forehead.

“It’s all right,” a voice murmured nonsensically. “It’s okay. You’re all right. Just rest now. Let it pass. You’re all right.”

The voice was a _fucking liar_. But she hadn’t strength to do more than cry.

\---

She had a fever, she realised distantly. She was sick. Badly sick. The world was foggy and a thousand miles away. The thing tied to her chest was still hideous. Still awful. Pulsing wickedly at her. She hated it. Hated it with all her heart and soul. She wanted it gone.

There was a voice there with her. On and off. Two voices, sometimes. She thought. It was hard to tell. One of them sang to her. She couldn’t often catch the words. It sounded nice, though. Warm. Easy. She liked that voice.

She wasn’t sure about the other one. It didn’t sing. It was soft and rough. Broken-sounding. She didn’t know if she liked it. But the hands attached to it were always gentle. They brought water. Cloths. Things to cool her down when she was boiling. Things to warm her up when she was freezing. They were … good hands. The voice wasn’t so good, but she liked the hands.

She was sick. She did realise that. Maybe dying. It felt like she might be dying.

She wasn’t sure she cared.

\---

It took four days, they told her later, before she actually woke again. Properly. Able to think and see and speak. It took her four days to fail to die.

She didn’t claw her way awake. Not this time. She crept gingerly towards the surface. Waiting, even still partly asleep, for the wall of pain. For the hands and the agony and the exhaustion. And there was … some hurt. Lots of hurt. But it was smaller. Spread out. It wasn’t a wall.

There were voices in the room. She recognised them, this time. She scraped up enough sense to know who they were.

“They’re getting mighty suspicious, sir,” Sam murmured, muffled as he wrestled with something. “Lydia and Cecelia definitely know something’s up. Wouldn’t mind about that. They wouldn’t tell nobody. But Wallace knows too, and what he knows Lord Treavor knows. And Overseer Martin, begging your pardon, but he’s a wily one. Don’t know as I’d like to let him know she’s here.”

“… No,” said a rasping voice. The Lord Protector. Sounding nearly worse than he had in Holger Square. “No, I don’t think I would either. He’s … He speaks well. But he’s …”

He didn’t finish. Sam understood him anyway, though.

“Yes sir,” he said softly. “He strikes me that way too. He’s a good man, of course. Wouldn’t say different. I just … don’t know as I’d trust him with someone who couldn’t fight him, is all.”

An Overseer. They had an Overseer. Or … an Overseer had them? 

“You need to show up more, sir,” Sam said quietly. “They’re close to translating the book. They’ll want us to move, then. They need to see you. Won’t trust you otherwise. I know she’s bad off, sir. But she’ll be worse if they kick her out. I’ll mind her for a bit. You head down.”

There was silence for a long second. And then the Protector said:

“I think the fever broke,” he whispered. Raw and tired. “Last night. Small hours. It was … bad. Just before. But I think it broke.”

Sam paused for a second. Startled. And then delighted. “Well!” he said. “Well, that’s some good news. I was getting scared, I don’t mind telling you. Saw a man go that way once. Got his leg crushed on the whaling deck. Rotted from the inside out. Wouldn’t want that for anyone. But if the fever’s gone, that’s good news. She might be all right!”

Might she, Tynan wondered fuzzily. Might she indeed. 

“… Here’s hoping,” the Lord Protector rasped wryly. Tiredly, but lightly. “All right. I’ll show my face. There’s … more elixir in the satchel. Bought more from Piero. And … that ointment he makes. Does seem to work. Inflammation’s gone down. Water’s in the can. You can … get me if …”

“Don’t you worry, sir,” Sam interrupted. Gently. “Been around the deck a time or two. I’ll look after her. You get down to the pub, Corvo. Get something to eat, maybe?”

Gently chiding. Faintly exasperated. They sounded so friendly. So safe. 

If only she could trust them to stay that way.

The Lord Protector left. Or someone moved, anyway, heaved themselves out … a window? By the sounds of things. She knew the sound of someone climbing over a sill. They were high up, then. Out of reach. Hard to escape. Someone left, and the person left behind started to hum quietly to himself.

A whaling shanty. She knew the tune, if not the words. It nudged her memory. He’d been the one singing to her.

She stirred slightly. Risked it. Testing her body. How much it could bear. How badly it still wanted to punish her. _Everything_ ached. The arm … the arm strapped to her chest throbbed warningly. But she managed to uncurl without passing out. She managed to straighten slightly.

She was tangled in a mass of blankets, she noticed. Most of them stiff and sweat-soaked. She stank of sickness. But not … not rot. The awful bundle on her chest didn’t stink of rot anymore.

The humming cut out. He’d noticed her. She stiffened slightly. Achingly. Tried to convince her battered body to brace itself. It didn’t listen. Not even remotely. She tried to turn anyway. To roll slightly towards her back, so she could see the rest of the room. But he pre-empted her. He came around her side of the blankets instead.

“Hello there,” he said, watching her hopefully. “There you are, miss. Back with us, huh?”

She stared warily up at him, but all he did was stand there. Rumpled and hopeful. Finally, caving to the warmth in his eyes, she opened her mouth. And … _croaked_.

It hurt. Oh, it hurt. Her throat felt like someone’d poured glass down it. Her companion darted back out of her sight instantly. She thought briefly about panicking. About being afraid. He appeared again only a moment later though. A chipped enamel cup in his hands.

“Here we go,” he said, kneeling beside her and holding it out to show her. Water. She reached up, her right hand shaking and barely functional. He let her grip it, but kept a hold of it himself. Wrapped his other arm around her to ease her up. Her muscles trembled like water themselves. She couldn’t have held herself up. “Easy there. You’ve been sick a while. Take it slow.”

She sipped carefully. Trying not to cry at the taste. At the feel of something cool and somewhat fresh slipping down her abused throat. He held her until she’d finished the cup. He smelled like smoke and wet wool and river water. His arm was warm. When he eased her back down, she was almost sorry.

“How …?” she tried again. Swallowing and trying to work the words through. “How long?”

He sat back on his haunches to look at her. “Were you out?” he checked. She nodded, and he scratched his neck uneasily. “’Bout four days, miss. Since we brought you here, anyway. Four days and a night since, ah. Well. Since Corvo got you outta there. You didn’t seem too bad at first. Second night, though, the fever set in bad. One or other of us have been sitting up with you since. Got scary for a bit there.”

One or other of them. Him or the Lord Protector. _Why_? She did believe him. The man had sounded nearly sick himself before he’d left. Worn down. She believed he’d been here. She remembered … hands. That other voice. He’d been gentle. It made no sense. Did he want Daud so badly that he’d be willing to play nursemaid to an assassin? 

Sam was watching her. She caught him. Looked up at him. His eyes were sad and kind. He reached down to touch her right hand gently. To pat it.

“You’ll be all right now, miss,” he said. “You’re on the mend. You don’t need to worry.”

She didn’t … call him a liar. He wasn’t. She could see he believed it. She could see, too, that he knew she _didn’t_. But he didn’t call her on it, and she didn’t call him either. 

Time would tell, after all, which of them was right.

\---

About two days later, they went out, and didn’t come back again for the better part of a day. They’d been tense before they’d left. The Lord Protector had been grim and silent, but also … excited? Or something like it. He’d been tense as a bow spring and all but quivering. She knew the look. She’d seen it so many times. Every Whaler before a job. A hunter before a kill.

She’d half shied from him because of it. He’d looked _powerful_. The nightmare from the kennels. Even without the mask. She’d been helpless. Even if she’d had both hands, the fever had wiped her out completely. Two days later, she’d still barely been able to stand. He could have batted her from one side of the room to the other like a novice with a ragball without breaking a sweat. But he hadn’t moved towards her. Or …

He’d been gentle, still. Tense and quivering and gentle. Like the kennels. Yes. They’d brought food. Water. Supplies. He’d bowed his head, and apologised in advance for their absence. He had a job. Regardless of the result, either he or Sam would return. They would not abandon her here.

That had struck her oddly. Whatever happened. Either he or Sam. It hadn’t been said darkly. He’d been calm, almost casual. But he’d meant that he might die. He’d meant that if he didn’t come back, Sam would help her in his stead. They’d made a way up. A secret way. Sam would be able to reach her even without the mark.

Which was interesting in more ways than one. A way up could be a way down. But it had been the knowledge of his own death that caught her.

He’d been fresh out of Coldridge for Holger Square. He really had been. He’d been half dead himself when he’d carried her out of there. They hadn’t been kind. They hadn’t waited. From the very start of this he’d known that there was every chance that he might die.

She didn’t … know why that struck her so oddly. But it did.

\---

He came back alive. He came back with the _Empress_. Tynan didn’t meet her herself. She was actually glad of that. But he was … different when he returned. He was … _alive_. Not so tired, anymore. Not so ragged and worn. There was something … not quite happy. Not yet. Like he didn’t dare yet. But he was … hopeful. She thought. He’d found something like hope.

She was moving better, by then. She’d pushed herself. Driven herself. If they didn’t come back, if she had to find a way out of there herself, she’d need to be able to move for it. Her hand—Climbing one-handed was a different question. One she’d shied from. But she wanted to at least be on her feet.

He hadn’t seemed threatened, when he came in. If anything, he’d seemed _pleased_. Relieved. His shoulders had softened, when he saw her on her feet. His expression had eased.

“… I’m sorry if we’re late,” he’d said. Standing just inside the window. Stooped and gentle. She’d fantasised briefly about kicking him back out. Hearing the splash or the crunch as he hit. For some reason, her stomach had promptly lurched. “I hope the supplies were enough?”

She hadn’t been able to answer him for a second. Had to struggle around … a lot of things. Enough that he frowned in concern. But then she’d found her voice again. She’d managed.

“It’s fine,” she’d rasped. Stiff and wary. “I’m fine.”

His eyes went sad again. He didn’t believe her. But he held out an apple and a pastry without a word. She didn’t throw them at his head. When she ate them, later, they were sweet.

\---

That was the best of it, though. That moment. That tiny window where he’d been hopeful and almost happy. She was probably lucky she’d fallen sick as fast as she did. If she’d waited longer, they’d have driven away any chance of him tending to her.

Not that she understood why he _had_. Even still. But he’d had a chance to then. He wouldn’t now.

An Admiral, an Overseer, and a Lord. That was the extent of the conspiracy, from what she could gather. The ones in charge. The ones that sent him out. To Holger Square, to rescue an assassin. To wherever he’d gone to rescue an Empress. They were the ones holding his leash. The way the Lord Regent had tried to hold Daud’s. They were the ones driving him.

And driving was the word for it. Job after job. It wasn’t just danger that wore on him. It wasn’t just wounds. Something about him wasn’t designed for this. He wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t a Whaler, and he’d never have _made_ a Whaler. She knew that just looking at him. You had to have something angry in you. Something _bitter_. He just looked exhausted. And _sad_.

He showed up one night. Well into the small hours of the morning. All but crawled in the window. She’d nearly killed him. Or at least, she’d nearly _tried_ to kill him. He’d actually left her a knife. Before he left. Now that she was on her feet. He’d left her a weapon. Just in case. She’d almost tried to use it on him. Woken up, scrambled out of bed. Tucked her left arm against her body, the knife in her right.

He’d been sitting under the window, though. Sitting where he’d fallen. His face was pale and gaunt as he’d looked at her. His hands were loose on his knees. If she’d stabbed at him, she had the terrible impression that he’d have let her. She lowered the knife.

“… I couldn’t kill her,” he rasped softly. Confessions in the small hours. She’d stared at him, for the longest second, at his pale face in the half light, and then she’d snorted savagely. And gone to prop the kettle on the little camp stove they’d given her.

She wondered if he’d gone to see his daughter. Or the Empress, if they weren’t admitting that yet. Visiting your pet _assassin_ before you visited her seemed a little … cheap. But that was cruel, she knew. He hadn’t given her reason to think that. 

Maybe he just wanted someone who knew what it was like.

“Who couldn’t you kill?” she asked baldly. Carrying the chipped mug back over in her single hand and handing it to him. He looked at her before he took it. Dark-eyed and hollow. She shoved it roughly into his hand. He closed his eyes, tucked it to his chest, and answered.

“Lady Boyle,” he whispered. “Esme Boyle. She was … Burrows’ mistress. She funded him. She knew … what he did. At least some of it. She supported him anyway. I was … supposed to take her out. Remove her. Take away his fiscal support. But I …”

Bottled it, she filled in silently. Bottled out. It happened. Mostly with green novices. But it happened.

“She lost a child,” he went on. Staring into his mug like it held … some hope of an answer. “I couldn’t find … much evidence of wrongdoing. Just … inaction. Letting Burrows do what he wanted. She was lonely. And grieving. It doesn’t excuse it. But there was … nothing there worth killing over. The others tortured. Murdered. Abused. She gave money to a man she thought she loved.”

Which was enough, Tynan couldn’t help but think. Given what the man did with it. Every noble who’d ever hired the Whalers had done nothing but hand over some money themselves. That didn’t make them innocent. Maybe they _thought_ it did, somewhere in their heads, but no blade would be raised without their say so. The blood was on their hands just as surely. She didn’t doubt it painted this Lady Boyle’s as well.

But he was a soft thing. A sad thing. He rescued fucking assassins. He hadn’t gotten around to asking her anything yet. He hadn’t gotten around to making her pay. She was beginning to finally wonder if he was ever planning to.

“So what did you do?” she asked. Not out of any real interest, as such, but just to let him say it. Just to let him … lance the wound. He flinched, a little bit. Ducked his head away.

“… There was a man,” he said finally. Exhaustedly. “He claimed to love her. Said he’d take her away if I brought her to him, and love her forever more.” Tynan grimaced, her stomach lurching. He grimaced too. He shook his head. “I couldn’t do that either. I’m not that foolish. She’d done nothing to deserve that either. But I had to remove her from play. So I … took her out of there. I brought her to … to Slackjaw. At Bottle Street.”

Tynan actually paused at that. Actually straightened up and paid attention. What now?

“Why the fuck would you take her to Slackjaw?” she blurted. Bewildered. He winced, and grimaced slightly. But then … eased.

“He made an offer for the Pendletons,” he said. “When I rescued Emily. It wasn’t a nice offer. They’ll be paying for a long time. That wasn’t … what I meant for her. But he kept his word. He held up his end of the bargain. I thought … if I could make it worth his while, he’d keep this one too. Keep her out of the way, at least until Burrows goes down. She had a small fortune in pearls. I offered it to tide him over. He said he’d hold her for me. She won’t … have fun. But he won’t torture her for fun. Or … pretend love to her. And I didn’t … She wouldn’t be safe here. If I’d brought her. Havelock threatened Sokolov. An enemy is an enemy, as far as he’s concerned. She wouldn’t be safe.”

And that was interesting. Again. Havelock was the Admiral, she thought. They didn’t _trust_ him. Neither the Lord Protector nor Sam. They hadn’t trusted him with her, and they didn’t trust him with anyone else either. The Admiral, or the Overseer either. They didn’t seem that concerned about the Lord. 

She wondered that he trusted them with the _Empress_. But he had … he had nowhere safe to go. She was realising that. He had nowhere else. They’d pulled him out of Coldridge. He had no one else to rely on.

He hadn’t even had a fucking doctor. 

“… He’ll keep her alive,” he whispered now. Trying to convince himself. “He keeps his bargains. When Burrows … When Burrows goes down, we can deal with her fairly. Charge her properly. Not murder her. There’s no … There was no need for that.”

No need for it, he said. Outsider’s eyes, but he’d have been dead in a week as a Whaler. 

Though he said the other part with a certain confidence. When Burrows goes down. The Lord Regent. He said _that_ part with a … a certain dark promise.

He looked up, after a minute. She hadn’t said anything. She had nothing to say, really. She couldn’t offer him absolution. Even advice. And she wasn’t built for comfort either. Even if he’d been someone she could give it to. But he didn’t seem to need it, really. As if her presence was almost enough. As if someone to _listen_ was almost enough.

“I’ll be going for Burrows tomorrow night,” he said softly. Calmly, as if it wasn’t a death sentence. They’d looked at it. Daud had looked at it. Going for Burrows. It was a death sentence. If it hadn’t been for the inside man, it would have been a death sentence the first time too. The … The Empress. The Tower wasn’t a fun game to pass the time, and it would only be worse now. But he still said it calmly. Implacably. “I’m not … I might not return. I was going to show you … I can show you now. Or tomorrow. The way down. I’ve worked on it some. It should be … easier for you now. You should be able to make the ground. If I don’t … come back. I don’t know where’s safe. But I’m sure you can find your way. You seem … capable.”

She seemed capable. Fuck. _Fuck_ him anyway. Like he didn’t know where she’d go. Like he didn’t know why she hadn’t gone _already_. Why she’d almost died rather than lead him there. 

And he’d made a way down, too. For someone with one hand. _Fuck_ the bastard anyway.

“… Drink your tea before I throw it at your head,” she whispered viciously. Raggedly, her whole body shaking. He smiled crookedly. And drank his tea.

\---

He went to the Tower. He went to handle the Lord Regent. And he didn’t come back.

Or not to her, anyway. He made it back to the pub, apparently. Made it all the way to the celebrations. But he never made it back to her. It was Sam who came instead.

She’d never seen the boatman as panicked. She’d never seen him as sick and shaking and ill. Almost crying. He was grey-faced, climbing in the window. He was shaking with fear and terror and disgust. And … guilt. Also with guilt.

“You need to go, miss,” he whispered, his hands fluttering in the air. Stricken. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay. I have to go. But you do too. They’ve … They’ve turned on him, miss. You have to go.”

Except he couldn’t look at her. He was turned away. Angled away. _Ashamed_. She strode forwards. It was only a few days, but she had some strength again. She grabbed him by the collar. A part of her felt badly. He’d never been anything but kind. But she grabbed him anyway.

“What happened?” she hissed. Feeling a distant rage. A distant terror. Not completely sure why. “What did they do? What did _you_ do?”

He flinched. Full-bodied, right from the gut. He flinched. And then … went still. Sagged, exhausted and resigned. He looked up at her. His kind face as broken as she’d ever seen it.

“I poisoned him,” he whispered. Raw with self-disgust. “They asked me to. They were looking right at me. I put a half-dose in the glass. It was all I could think to do. They want … they want me to get rid of the body. Hide it somewhere, so they can pull him out later. Pretend to be heroes. Say they rescued Lady Emily from him. Like _he’s_ the one she’s needs to be scared of.”

Tynan felt strange. She felt hollow, and distant. Like she’d felt when the fever boiled through her. Like the world was very far away. She still didn’t understand.

“… He’s dead?” she asked. Her voice very strange. “You killed him?”

She wouldn’t have believed it of _Sam_.

But he flinched. Again. He shook his head. Almost desperately.

“A _half_ dose,” he said. “He isn’t gone yet. I had to give him something. They were watching me. But I’d never … I’d _never_ do it for real. Not all the way. He’s … He’s bad off. And I’ll not be able to mind him. I have to set him loose. Downriver. It’s the only thing they’ll believe. I haven’t time for much else. But he’s not dead yet. And he’s … he’s _Corvo_. He’ll manage. I know he will.”

Thinly. Desperately. A pale article of faith. But he was … he was right. It wasn’t just anyone. It was the Lord Protector. The nightmare. The gentle man. If anyone could make it …

“Downriver?” she asked again. Still a little distant. A little hollow. But she was thinking now. She was _considering_.

He eyed her. Sam. Not … Not suspiciously. He probably should have been suspicious. But he saw something in her. A spark. An echo. He saw something in her that he held in himself.

“Downriver,” he agreed. “There’s not much from here. Just Rudshore and the sea. But he’ll have to drift. I won’t be able to take him. The river’ll guide him in before he gets into trouble.”

Said with all the faith of a master pilot. A man who knew his river well.

Just Rudshore and the sea, he said. Just _Rudshore_. They must be in the old Port District. She’d … suspected that. Next door. For _fuck’s sake_. Right next door. She could have popped over the quarantine wall and fucking _waved home_. If she’d still had her mark. She could have stood up there and waved at the Commerce Building. Void take it all.

She knew what she was going to do. It almost felt like someone else was doing it, someone else was making that choice, but she knew what she was going to do. There’d never been any doubt.

“Send me with him,” she whispered. While Sam startled slightly under her hand. “In the boat. Send me with him. I’ll … I’ll mind him.”

She owed him that, didn’t she? She owed him some nursemaiding. 

And … some other things as well.

Sam looked at her. Still held in her grasp. Still sick and tired and ashamed. Smelling like warmth and wet wool and home. He looked at her face. At her eyes. He should have been surprised. He knew what she was. She’d given him nothing to trust in so far. But he wasn’t shocked. He smiled. Tired and gentle and sad. Like he knew her. Like he knew himself.

“I’d be right grateful for that, miss,” he said softly. “I know it’s not … what you wanted. But I’d be right grateful.”

She shook her head. Swallowed thickly. She stepped away from him. Not long. Not far. Just enough to fetch her knife. She shoved it into the waistband of her trousers. Daud would kill her for that, when he saw it. It wasn’t secure. It wasn’t how you treated a weapon. But she had nowhere else to put it. She only had one hand.

“Let’s go,” she said. In lieu of … anything else. “He … He showed me the way down. Let’s go.”

\---

It was quiet, when they drifted into Rudshore. In their little rowboat. The silent Lord Protector and her. He was pale. Lying in the bottom of the boat. Breathing thinly in his anguish. Fever burned through him. The poison was Tyvian. Sam was right. It likely wouldn’t kill him. But it was painful. She knew full well. It burned.

She wondered if she’d looked like that. When he’d laid her down, fresh out of Holger Square. Had she been that pale and thin and helpless? Twisted in silent agony? Probably. Maybe worse. They hadn’t chopped any bits off of him. Not yet.

She watched the Flooded District drift around them. Not him. Not more than to check that he still breathed. She didn’t like the look of him. Like this. She didn’t want to see him this way.

He seemed vaguely aware, sometimes. Drifting upwards through the pain. She remembered that, too. She wondered if she looked like a nightmare to him. She’d brought her mask. She hadn’t put it on just yet. Maybe … Maybe for that. So he wouldn’t look at her and see … a memory. A bad dream. He looked at her sometimes like he could almost see her. She didn’t want him to look, and be afraid.

She saw a couple of sentries. _Finally_. They were almost to the covered bridge. She wondered how many were left. How many had survived the Overseers. The witches. If this was the only coverage they had …

Two grey figures blinked towards her. Traversed down off the bridge. Right onto the boat. It rocked at the impact. The Lord Protector moaned softly.

The lead sentry, Aeolos, startled at the sight of him. _Swore_, flinching backwards and reaching for his blade. Tynan moved without a thought. Without _thinking_. She rolled forward. Crouched across the broken man in the bottom of the boat. Her knife held up in her only hand. Aeolos flinched back further. His partner, Dodge, stared at her too.

“… Ty?” he whispered. In bewilderment. In shock. Staring at her. At… at her missing arm. “Tynan? What the …? Where were you? What happened? _Fuck_.”

“He’s with me,” she rasped instantly. Answering that instead of anything else. “You’re not to harm him. He’s with _me_.”

They might not have a choice. She knew that. He still wasn’t worth Daud’s life. But he’d … he’d pulled her out of Holger Square. He’d sat by her while she almost died, and done what he could to keep her here. He’d given her a knife. He’d given her a way down. He’d kept her … kept her away from the men that betrayed him. She couldn’t let him die either.

He was soft, anyway. He wasn’t one of them. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that. But she had to try. Either way. She had to try. 

“… Ty,” said Dodge softly. So dubiously. She snarled at him bitterly.

“You’re going to take us to Daud,” she said fiercely. “Actually, no. You’re going to take us to _Leon_, and one of you goes to get Daud. He’s been poisoned. The fuckers … the fuckers poisoned him. He needs a fucking doctor. You get us to Leon, and get Daud. And Daud can … decide from there.”

Could she convince him not to kill him? Could she convince them not to kill _each other_? She had no idea. But they were owed. Both of them. And she’d pay her debts, or die trying.

They looked at each other. And then at her. Dodge … took off his mask. To look at her properly.

“Why?” he asked. Really quiet. Really soft. “This is the Lord Protector. He’s going to kill us, Ty.”

She laughed soundlessly. A bubble of mirth, harsh and cracked. They flinched back a little bit. She shook her head. Smiling and sad.

“He’s not,” she said. “I’ll bet you my spare hand he’s not. But it doesn’t matter. I owe him. Enough to see him to Daud. He pulled me out of Holger Square.” She held up her left arm, smiling blackly. “Before they could see how many other bits of me they could cut off. I owe him. He took care of me. I’m going to see him to Daud.”

And then they’d … see what they saw. They’d see where judgement fell. But she was going to see him to Daud. And she was going to see him to a _fucking doctor_.

How the fuck could you pull a man out of _fucking Coldridge_, and not even give him that much?

They looked at each other again. Shaking and scared. But she had a job to do, and maybe they knew they weren’t going to stop her doing it. Aeolos snarled slightly, but traversed back up to the bridge. To fetch a pole. To steer the boat with. He landed back, and headed for the back of the boat with only barely a grumble.

They took her through. Two Whalers, the Lord Protector, and her. Whatever she was anymore. Four bodies in a boat, heading for Daud.

Maybe, when they arrived, he’d even know what to do.

Somebody had to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debts are owed, and not all can be paid. But there's hope enough if you live 'til morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note:** The tone of this went ... slightly odd on me. I'm not sure how well it matches with the first part. But ... enjoy?

He came back to awareness a bit, with the other two in the boat. The Lord Protector. Or he tried to. She could see him struggling upwards. Trying to force his eyes to open and stay focused. He blinked up at her. Still crouched over him. He tried to move a hand.

Tynan found herself reaching instinctively to calm him. With her _stump_. She caught herself. Cut herself off. And snarled at him.

“Go back to fucking sleep,” she whispered. Looking down long enough to hold his eyes and glare him into submission. “I’ve got this. Just … lie down and don’t do anything _stupid_.”

He blinked at her some more. Bemused, she wondered, or just semi-conscious? But he stopped struggling. He stopped trying to move. He did keep blinking, though. Slow and languid. It took her a couple of seconds to realise that he was trying to stay awake. Forcing his eyes back open every time they fell closed. So he’d listen to her, but only halfway. Fine. Fuck him anyway, then.

The boat grounded off something, and she looked up rapidly. Startled, wobbling on top of him. Dodge … made a half movement towards her. She caught it out of the corner of her eye. Like he wanted to brace her, but something stopped him.

The Lord Protector. Her arm. Her _treason_. What the fuck ever.

They were at the train station. Heading in to Central Rudshore. You couldn’t actually get there by boat. Not straight. Not all the way. Which was … an _issue_. Fuck. She’d forgotten that. Or not … not thought of it. It wouldn’t have been a problem, before. If she’d … had her mark. Even her _hand_. Walk or climb, she’d still have made it. But now …

She looked down at him again. Feeling a flush of hot despair. _Blinding_ frustration. He blinked at her, and she snarled wetly.

“I can’t fucking _carry_ you,” she whispered furiously.

She wasn’t sure why it was so … why it hit her so badly. Why it blinded her so completely. But she _had no hand_. She was barely standing herself. And he’d carried her out of Holger Square. He’d been half dead, straight out of Coldridge, and he’d _carried_ her out. She couldn’t return the favour. She didn’t want anyone else touching him, didn’t want other hands on him when he was like this, when he was _helpless_, but she was too fucking weak and too fucking _maimed_ to return the fucking favour.

It … It hurt something in her. It sent rage and shame flushing through her. It made _tears_ start springing to her eyes. She _hated_ it.

He tried to move again. Looking blearily at her. Something odd on his face, through the fog of the poison. He moved his hand. By her leg. After a couple of false starts, he managed to move it. A strange, rolling gesture. Turning his hand in tiny, unsteady circles. She stared down at him for a long minute before she figured it out. And then … she stared some more.

“I’m not,” she started, bluntly amazed. Half appalled, half furious. “I’m not _rolling you_ through fucking Rudshore! The fuck is the matter with you? There’s _weepers_ in here!”

He breathed out. A tiny huff of air. A laugh. His lip curled just a fraction. He’d been unconscious two fucking minutes ago, and now he was making _jokes_. If she hadn’t had a knife in her hand, she’d have hit him. Rolled him out of the fucking boat. Outsider’s _balls_.

Dodge moved beside her. Shifted his weight uncertainly. Her head snapped to him immediately. Her knife hand lifted with barely a thought. He quailed slightly. Grimaced uneasily at her.

“I can,” he started. Deeply reluctant. “I can take him. Traverse him. Aeolos can … Um. He could take you too. To, ah. To speed … speed it up …”

He trailed off. Tynan had _no_ idea what sort of expression must have been on her face, but his voice failed him in the face of it. He leaned back, the boat wobbling under him, eyes wide and startled. Tynan looked away from him. Struggled with herself. Struggled to put away the … She didn’t even know what she was feeling. Beyond a deep well of _no_. She fought to put it away.

He touched her leg while she fought herself. The Lord Protector. Nudged her boot with a drift of his hand. She looked down at him, and he tried to nod. A tiny motion of his head. Granting permission. Telling her to let it go.

Easy for him to fucking say. But _fine_.

“Sure,” she said. Ragged and wet and falsely bright. Turning something that might vaguely pass as a smile towards Dodge. Who promptly leaned further away. “Fine. But if you drop him, I’m punting you into the fucking canal. All right?”

He nodded rapidly. Glanced behind her, towards Aeolos, who presumably nodded too. Probably with the same pinched, panicked expression on his face.

They climbed out of the boat. The two novices first. Stiffly and uneasily, sloshing in the shallows. Then Tynan heaved herself over the side. Staggering. Almost falling. Dodge reached for her again, but she got her own feet under her with a snarl. Backing into the boat. Wishing absently for Sam, for warmth and the smell of wet wool. Hating herself, vaguely, because of it. And then it was his turn.

Dodge and Aeolos pulled him gingerly out of the boat between them. Dodge taking most of his weight, dropping to one knee in the water to get under him while Aeolos heaved him the rest of the way onto Dodge’s shoulder. It went smoothly. As much as that kind of manoeuvre ever did. He stayed obligingly limp and harmless for them. Flopping like a dead man in their hands. Tynan’s whole stomach tried to lunge out her throat. Her whole body burned and trembled.

For fuck’s sake, why did it _matter_ so much? Why was she like this? All he’d fucking done was …

Save her. And take care of her. And try to keep her safe.

Void damn it anyway.

Aeolos approached her. Offered her his arm. Left arm, so she could take it with her right. Grimacing all the way. Scared of her. Uncertain. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether he or Dodge had the worst passenger. Tynan bit back a snarl. Bit back _tears_. She had to put her knife away to get her arm around his, to wedge it in her trousers again. She hated everything. But she did it.

They took her in short, staggering jumps through Rudshore. A quad of idiots bouncing off walls all the way home. Passing just about everyone as they went.

Traversals were a lot less fun as a passenger. She didn’t realise how much so until she was forced into it. They were … awful. The lack of control. The _dependency_. Being in someone else’s hands. And it was rougher, too. Without her own mark to cushion it. 

By the time they landed on the bridge into the Commerce Building, she was all but on her knees. Staggering. A little semi-conscious herself. She sagged down before Aeolos could move on again. Called a halt by dint of crumpling down beside him. He tried to catch her. To ease her down. If it wouldn’t have involved likely toppling off the bridge, she’d have yanked herself away from him.

Dodge appeared beside them. Looking red-faced and strained. He hadn’t put his mask back on yet, which made it rather obvious. The Lord Protector had lost consciousness again. She could see it, see him hanging limp and genuinely lifeless down Dodge’s back. She wasn’t really surprised. He’d been barely clinging on anyway, and this … this was the opposite of comfortable. Even for someone in the full of their health, which neither of them could really claim right now. 

She wondered vaguely if she should have offered to choke him out. Like he had her. But _that_ was all but impossible one-handed too. And like fuck she was letting the other two do it.

She sagged forward a bit. Hand and knees. Breathing hard. Trying to get it back under control. They were nearly there. One more jump. Maybe two. She just had to handle a couple more. 

But there was a sudden silence around her. A _watching_ sort of silence. The sentries … They’d gone still. Aeolos made a small squeaking sound beside her. And Tynan knew, before she ever lifted her head, what she’d see. _Who_ she’d see.

It made sense, after all. Everybody and their aunt had seen them staggering in. Someone would have alerted him. Of course they would have.

It didn’t make it any easier. To raise her head and look at Daud.

\---

They took them into the infirmary. _Both_ of them, which was all Tynan could reasonably ask for here. More than, probably. He was an enemy. He was the _Lord Protector_. She knew Dodge wasn’t the only one firmly convinced that the first thing he’d do when he woke up was try to slaughter them all. For Daud to let him be brought here on her word was …

Something. It was _something_. She didn’t want to think about it.

It was hard to look at him. At _either_ of them, really. The Protector was like a ragdoll again. Limp as he was passed from hand to hand. Trying to surface, here or there. Fading in and out. Leon slung him up onto a bed. Checked his pulse and his eyes. The wet rasp of his breathing. The medic frowned, tutting darkly to himself. Tynan looked away from them. The man beside her, still and careful in his red coat, wasn’t … wasn’t any easier.

He guided her over to a cot herself. A hand on her good elbow. An oddly gentle hand. She went with him automatically. Doing her best not to stumble, even though her knees wanted to soften out from under her. He pushed her down gently. She went like her strings had been cut.

“How bad is it?” he asked roughly. Looking her over. Skipping … skipping slightly over her arm. The remains of it. The bandage … did look a little rough, now that she looked at it. It was a day or so old. Sam hadn’t had the chance to help her change it before …

Well. Before.

“Tynan,” Daud said again. Prompted. She looked up at him. “How bad is it? The bodyguard can wait if he needs to. How bad off are you?”

She blinked at him a little bit. For some reason, it seemed like … such an absurd question, suddenly. She shook her head. Waved it off with her right hand. There was nothing wrong with her that could be fixed any time soon. Nothing that would bear looking at.

“It’s fine,” she rasped thickly. “It’s been looked at. It’s fine.”

Daud growled frustratedly under his breath. “Oh? Looked at by _who_, exactly?”

Like he wanted to have words with them about it. Possibly lethal ones. Tynan stared at him. Half of her felt like crying. The other half felt … strangely defensive. Protective. They’d done their best. Both of them. She found herself tucking the stump defensively against her chest. Unwilling to let anyone look at it. Unwilling to let anyone _criticise_ it. She’d have been _dead_, if not for them. They’d done their best for her.

“It’s _fine_,” she said harshly. Flatly. Wondering, distantly, at her daring. At saying this to _Daud_. “It’s fine. The bandage is just … old. It can wait. It’s fine.”

He loomed above her. For a long, long moment. His jaw tight. His eyes dark. She wondered absently if he’d fight her on it. Order her to show him. Pull her arm out from her chest. A strange snarl bubbled in her gut. Her lip lifted in giddy anticipation. But he … backed off. After a minute. He took a small step back, and scrubbed a hand frustratedly through his hair.

“All right,” he growled. “Fine. You can fight with Leon about it, then. Best of luck to you.” 

Maybe she would. She wasn’t sure yet. She’d decide when he got around to her. A part of her wanted to. A part of her hated the thing enough. Wanted it to rot all the way off and have done. But that wasn’t … sensible. She knew that. She was just … strange right now. Flailing. Useless.

He looked like he could see it. When he looked at her. His face was set and harsh. Angry. But there was something under it that had her … shaking. Just a little.

He tipped his head up, finally. Looked at the ceiling. Looked away. “_Report_,” he said. Almost exhaustedly. “Give me a report, Whaler.”

Tynan closed her eyes. Squeezed them tight. And … tried.

\---

He sat down with her. After a while. After her words had mostly run dry. The infirmary was largely empty by then. Everyone sent off. Or run off. Just Leon and the Lord Protector left. And them. He sat down on the empty cot across from her, and rubbed his hand uselessly along his jaw.

“… We found most of the bodies,” he said finally. Quietly. “After the surge. And Franklin, later. We thought you were dead. Hoped, maybe. I’m sorry. I’d … hoped that no one had been taken alive.”

She smiled crookedly. Looking down at the arm and a half in her lap. Her lips twisted slightly.

“Bad luck,” she rasped softly. “Guess someone had to have bad luck. At least it was only me.”

She’d been the only one in the kennels, anyway. If there’d been anyone else, she assumed the Overseers must not have gotten their gloves off in time. Which was … actually lucky, maybe. She doubted the Lord Protector could have pulled more than one of them out. Not if they’d been as badly off as she’d been. There were only so many unconscious bodies you could cart around Holger Square before the Abbey actually did wise up. Catch on. Add you to them.

She wondered if he would have tried. Common sense would say no, but he didn’t seem to … have much of that. Honestly, he didn’t seem to have _any_.

He probably would have, she thought. He’d probably have gotten killed, too.

“… _Why_?” Daud whispered finally. Almost angrily. Looking about as off-balance and upset as she felt. “Why would he—”

Rescue an enemy. Go out of his _way_ to rescue an enemy. Keep her alive. Nurse her back to health. Hide her from his allies. _Arm_ her. Build a path for her to make her crippled, maimed way to safety if she needed to. All of that. Any of that. Why would he do _any_ of it.

Tynan laughed softly. “Do I look like I fucking know?” She hiccoughed, cracked and giddy. “I thought he wanted you. I figured he wanted me to lead him to you. But he … I don’t think so. This was an accident. This was … someone else. The fucking _bastards_. Bad luck, not a plan. I’m ninety per cent sure that if he wanted to be here, he wouldn’t have planned on being poisoned first.”

He definitely wouldn’t have made Sam do it. He wouldn’t have used the man like that. Wouldn’t have _hurt_ him like that. No. This was all … An Admiral, an Overseer, and a Lord. Just the sorts to bring poison to a party.

Nothing good ever came from Overseers. She could have told him that. He should have _known_. Between Campbell and the other one. He should have fucking known. People ended up hurt around Overseers. Every fucking time. People ended up tortured or betrayed or poisoned or _dead_. Nothing good ever came out of the Abbey. Not once.

“… This wasn’t a plan,” she finished raggedly. “I wasn’t … meant for anything. He’s just _soft_.”

Soft and stupid and broken. There wasn’t any other reason for it, or any better way to say it.

He might still kill Daud. Or try to. It was … He’d gone out of his way not to kill people, even to _rescue_ them, but it might be different … it might be different with the man who’d actually stabbed her. The Empress. It might be different for the man who’d killed her in front of him. She … knew that. But the rest of them … No. He wasn’t trying to hurt them.

That didn’t make it better. That didn’t give her any clearer of an idea what to _do_.

She looked up at him. Daud. She looked up at the man who’d saved her once upon a time. Pulled her up out of a ditch. Put a knife in her hand. Shown her how to protect herself. Everything she was now, she was because of him. He’d given her … everything. She didn’t want him to die.

But she couldn’t let him, or anyone else, kill the Lord Protector either.

“… What happens now?” she whispered quietly. Desperately. Wanting him to know. To have some idea how to get them out of this. “Sir. I owe him. What happens now?” 

He didn’t answer immediately. Just sat there. Rubbing his jaw. Staring out at … nothing. Harsh and tired and thoughtful. And then he breathed out. Slowly. And looked at her.

“First,” he said, with weary exasperation. “First you let Leon look at you. No offense to the man, I’m sure he did his best, but he’s not a fucking doctor. You got your fucking hand chopped off. You’re letting Leon look at you.” 

She opened her mouth. More out of habit than anything else. He glared at her, instantly and viciously. She closed it again.

And he … sighed. Stood up. Scrubbed a hand through his hair. 

“I’ll pull together a scouting party,” he said resignedly. “Get them sent over the quarantine wall. Figure out what’s going on over there. Who went where and what needs salvaging. The rest … The rest we’ll deal with when he wakes up. The rest … depends on him.”

The rest depended on him. On whether he could stand in a room with Daud and not kill him. On whether he could stand in a room full of assassins and not die.

Tynan closed her eyes again. Tucked her chin against her chest. Her arm, too. Her useless, lopped-off arm. She curled her remaining hand around the opposite elbow. Gripped it until her fingers went white.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Emptily. “I’m _sorry_.”

Daud stood there for a second. Looming over her. She could feel him. And then he sighed in exasperation. Touched his hand to her good shoulder before he left.

“Tynan,” he said, as he walked out of the room. “Don’t be a fucking idiot.”

\---

Leon was putting the finishing touches on an ointment coating when the Lord Protector started to stir again. Tynan caught it first. She was doing her best not to actually _look_ at the mess on the end of her arm. Looking out over Leon’s head. She saw his eyes blink start to blink open. Slow and bleary and cautious. She saw him … wake up.

She touched Leon lightly on the shoulder. A warning. “Your patient’s waking up,” she said softly. When he looked up at her. “Go get Daud. Give us … Give us a few minutes.”

Leon raised an eyebrow. Smoothing the last few daubs on neatly, casually taking his time. “Are you sure?” he asked. Equally soft. “Rats in traps, Tynan. Maybe I should stay.”

Rats in traps. They gnawed on things to get out. Chewed them up. But Tynan shook her head.

“He’s not a rat,” she said. Meaning it in … so many ways. “Go get Daud. Take your time.”

If she’d learned nothing else these past two weeks, it was that he wasn’t going to hurt _her_. Not without a lot more of a reason. She was safe. She’d be fine.

He watched them as they stood. Narrow-eyed and wary. He watched Leon all the way out the door. Trying to brace himself. Just in case. Tynan … knew the feeling. She recognised it. She winced, faintly. And made her way gingerly to his side.

“… Hi,” she said. Standing awkwardly by his bed. Holding her slathered arm slightly out to one side. His eyes skated over it. Sad and shamed. He looked back up at her again.

“Hi,” he rasped. His voice a ruined croak. His lip curling slightly for the absurdity of it. That was … fair, she supposed. She smiled crookedly herself.

“Welcome to Rudshore,” she said ruefully. A whole _wealth_ of meanings in it. “You’re all right. More or less. Aside from the whole poisoning part.” She snarled faintly. “I could have told you not to trust a fucking Overseer. You _idiot_.”

He winced. Looked away. “I … thought I’d have more time,” he managed thickly. “Havelock. I thought he’d … wait. A little longer.”

She growled at him. Leaned in over the bed. “You _didn’t trust them_,” she hissed. “I know you didn’t. _Why_ would you let them …”

He didn’t have a lot of options. She knew that. They’d pulled him out of Coldridge. He had nowhere else to go. But they weren’t _like_ him. They weren’t soft, they weren’t _decent_. He hadn’t trusted them. He’d kept his _enemies_ out of their hands. Her. Lady Boyle. Couldn’t he have fucking managed to keep _himself_?

They wouldn’t _be_ here if he could just have acted like a paranoid bastard for once. Instead of a soft fucking _idiot_.

He closed his eyes. For a long, long second. And then said, thickly: “I thought they’d use me. Not kill me. I thought they’d … try to use me.”

That was … almost reasonable. Sad, and almost reasonable.

She _snarled_ at it. Rage and useless, boiling frustration. She spun sideways and _kicked_ at his bedside table. It was solid. A good piece of kit. Salvaged by Leon from somewhere. She bounced off it. Staggered. He reached out a hand to snag her arm. Shaking, trembling. Barely any strength in it. Her hip barked against the side of the cot, and she strangled a scream in frustration at herself. At him, at herself. At _everything_.

“You’re an idiot,” she growled. Tugging her arm out of his hand. Leaning angrily against the bed. “You’re a stupid fucking idiot. You know that, right?”

He paused briefly. And then huffed. 

“You’re not the first to say so,” he offered wryly. 

Tynan snorted thickly. Leaning against the cot. She grabbed her elbow with her hand, only belatedly remembering not to hug her arm to herself. It needed air, apparently. A protective coating, and then air. It needed to breathe, or it would rot again. She growled faintly, and held it back out from her body. He watched her silently through her manoeuvrings. He let the silence sit for a minute.

And then, slowly and carefully: “Do you know what happened? To … Emily. Sam. Do you know …?”

She bit her lip. Looked away angrily.

“No,” she said tightly. “Sam got you in a boat. Got me in it as well. Don’t know what happened after that. He’s … not stupid. Not like some I could name. He’s probably … He’ll know better than to get hurt. I’m sure of it.”

He _was_ smart. The boatman. He was quiet and cautious and good at not being seen. He’d be fine. He’d get out of the way and stay out of the way. He’d be _fine_.

The Empress …

“They wouldn’t kill her,” she said softly. Focusing desperately on not hugging her arm. “They need her. Same as Burrows needed her. They need to … look legitimate. They won’t kill her.”

_Hurt_ her, mind, was another question. He probably knew that. Especially if she wasn’t feeling cooperative. But that wasn’t sustainable long-term. Not if she was going to be Empress down the line. You wanted to get her onside, not piss her off. You could try to mould her, make her scared of you, especially when she was only ten, but if she had any streak of stubbornness in her at all, it wouldn’t end well down the line. 

Unless … well. Unless you were planning to use her just long enough to get established. A couple of years or so. Just to get your foot in the door. _Then_ you could kill her. If you were planning that …

He closed his eyes. His throat bobbing as he swallowed. Grief and bitterness, she thought. And then his lips pressed together. His jaw firmed. She was already moving before he’d done more than _think_ about getting up.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she growled. Pressing her hand to his chest as he struggled up onto an elbow. Struggle was the word. But his daughter had _plenty_ of stubbornness to inherit. “You were _poisoned_. Lie the fuck back down.”

He glared at her. His breath ragged in his chest. She could feel it, under her palm. “I need to go,” he whispered. “Please. I need to go.”

“You’re _half dead_,” she hissed back. If she pushed on him now, even with just the one hand, his arms would go out from under him. She knew it. They both knew it. She wasn’t sure if it was sympathy or cruelty that kept her from doing it. If she was being gentle or just offering false hope. “What are you going to do when you get there, collapse on them? Don’t be stupid!”

He didn’t answer. His jaw set. Glaring. His arms braced under him. He was … like a coiled spring. Like a nightmare. All he needed was the mask. He’d been nearly this bad getting her out. Fresh out of Coldridge. He wouldn’t do less for his daughter. He could have been _all_ the way dead, and he wouldn’t do less for his daughter. She knew that. Of course she knew it.

But she’d thought he was dead. Sam had said he’d poisoned him, and she’d thought he was _dead_. He wasn’t running off on his own. Nightmare or no damn nightmare.

Her hand tensed. Ready to push. Something dark and desperate flared in his eyes. He might not forgive her for this. He might not forgive her for a lot of things. But Tynan had never been built for absolution anyway. She shifted to put all her weight on her shoulder.

And someone traversed behind her. An audible entrance. Someone blinked into the room behind her.

She turned instantly. His head came up as well. He rolled slightly onto his right arm so he could free his left. The one defence remaining to him. Tynan braced herself as well. She knew full well who’d come in. She knew who it had to be. But tension was still spiralling through her, and she’d braced herself defensively, hand raised, without a thought.

Daud stared at her. At the Lord Protector, too, but mostly at her. He eyed her thoughtfully. She flushed, and dropped her hand.

The Protector looked between them. Eyes dark and wary. And then he pushed himself all the way up on shaking arms, and turned to face Daud properly. As best he could. He swung his legs over the edge of the cot, and sat braced to do … something. 

Not fall on his face, hopefully. Or anything … more lethal.

No one said anything for a minute. Just stared at each other. The Lord Protector, lean and trembling, and the man who’d murdered his Empress. Stiff and armed and wary. Tynan had an odd, giddy urge to sing something. One of Sam’s whaling shanties. Just belt one out to break the silence.

Then Daud moved. Ducked his head, slightly, a nod of acknowledgement, and drifted sideways. Resting a box on an empty bed.

“Hello, bodyguard,” he said quietly. An odd smile on his face as he looked back at them. Tynan felt the quiver go through the man at her side. The half-lunge he’d caught and reined back immediately. He drew a deep breath and … inclined his head.

“Daud,” he acknowledged softly. A shake in his voice. Nothing else.

Daud hesitated a second. Wondering how the fuck to make this go in a non-violent direction, Tynan thought. Wondering how to get any of them out of this alive. It wasn’t … something they normally had to consider. Normally violence was the _point_. But he straightened his shoulders after a moment. He lifted his chin and moved carefully close to them. 

“… Thank you,” he said at last. Roughly and simply. Looking at Tynan, briefly, before meeting and holding the Lord Protector’s eyes. “For Tynan. The best we can normally hope for with the Abbey is not to be taken alive. You …” 

He faltered. His jaw worked. Something hard and heavy sat in Tynan’s stomach. Lodged in her throat. She pulled her arm in against her side. Wondered if it was too late to crawl back into a cage in Holger Square. He bore through, though. He finished without flinching.

“We’re in your debt,” he finished quietly. “Anything you ask for her life. For … everything else. Whatever’s owed, I’ll pay it.”

She made a noise. Heard herself. Pressed the stump of her arm against her chest. They looked at her. Both of them. Daud in open worry. The Lord Protector …

He lifted a hand towards her. Momentarily. An automatic, comforting reach. The hands that held her together while she lay dying. Then he dropped it again. And looked away.

“… No,” he said. Broken and rasping. His shoulders curving in exhausted defeat. “Not for her. It was … done freely. And the rest …” He closed his eyes. Pressed his lips until they were white. A broken, shaking thing. Too soft to stay alive. “The rest can’t be paid. Not in this life. Let me go. Let me leave. It’s … as done as it’s going to be.”

As done as it …

Daud closed his eyes. His jaw so tight his teeth must crack. His hands curled in helpless fists. Tynan understood. Too well. Her stump throbbed at her. Pulsed angrily where she’d pressed it against herself. Maybe violence would have been _better_. Maybe _Holger fucking Square_ would have been better. But it was the best he could give. She believed that. He’d never once given less. And they had no right to ask for better.

“… You won’t get far like that,” Daud croaked. Finally. Desperately. Reining himself back onto practical concerns. “You need to rest a b—”

The Lord Protector _moved_. Traversed himself onto his feet. A flare of his left hand. He threw himself lock-kneed onto his feet with all the power of the Outsider. Tynan stumbled away. Even Daud flinched back. The Protector stood there quivering. Lean and lethal. The nightmare of Holger Square. The thing she’d honestly believed might have killed everyone. He hadn’t. She knew now he hadn’t. She wasn’t sure if he’d killed anyone at all. But _void_ did he look like he _could_.

“They have my daughter,” he whispered thinly. Pressed and harsh. “They have Emily. I will get _as far as I need to_. Every time. Let me _go_.”

Daud stared at him. Tynan too. A shaking thing in her chest. A thing that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be fear, or … or desperate pity. But Daud straightened grimly. Refusing to be cowed long. Not by anyone. He set his jaw, and stared the Protector down angrily.

“I sent a scouting party into the Old Port District,” he snapped back. Clipped and harsh. “If you wait for them to come back, you’ll at least know what’s on the ground before you go _blundering blindly into it_.”

He stood balanced on the balls of his feet. Ready to roll with a blow and punish it instantly. The Lord Protector _stared_ at him. For the longest second. His eyes wide and wild. His hands curled and on the brink of savagery.

And then he … slumped. Slightly. Curved down, locking his knees against collapse. He looked away.

“… Thank you,” he rasped raggedly. “And … I’m sorry.”

Daud flinched. Backed a step away from him. “Don’t fucking thank me,” he barked instantly. “Don’t … Shut _up_. Your gear’s in the box. Your sword. I’ll send Leon back in here. Sit the fuck back down. Get yourself together. And don’t _fucking thank me_.”

There was gentility, after all, and outright cruelty. And they merged too often in this one man to be really fair.

Tynan knew it all too well.

\---

The Old Port District was now full of watchmen, apparently. Tallboys and all. The fuckers hadn’t wasted any time cashing in on their ‘rescued’ Empress, it seemed.

Someone was dead. At least two people. There were bodies in the courtyard of an old pub. Someone else was barricaded into a shed, currently under siege. Another one in a tower. The void-damned Admiral had fucked off somewhere, the Overseer and the Lord in tow. Chances were good they’d taken the Empress with them.

There was … no boat docked at the shore. No Amaranth. So Sam likely wasn’t one of the bodies, at least.

Dimitri and Fisher reported the lot of this to Daud. Who in turn, stiff and cold-faced, reported it to the Lord Protector. And her, but more by accident of proximity than anything else. She’d looked at him anyway. Leaned instinctively towards him. He closed his eyes for a long second. Pale-faced and trembling. Anger, she thought. As much as grief.

“… The one in the workshop will be Piero,” he said finally. Opening his eyes and firming his lips. “The one in the tower is likely Callista, though I … I would have thought they’d kill her. The bodies … Lydia, Cecelia, or Wallace. The servants. They’re cleaning house. Likely … Likely the first two. Pendleton’s fond of Wallace. He might have asked Havelock to let him live.”

The magnanimity of a Lord. Content to let someone live if they’d happened to please him. They were racking up points, this lot. 

But Sam wasn’t there. Whatever else had happened, Sam hadn’t died there yet.

The Lord Protector looked up slightly. At the lot of them. A grim, exhausted determination in the line of his jaw. “I’ll need a way in without being seen. The river’s too exposed. I don’t … suppose you’d happen to know one?”

Daud looked at him. Fisher and Dimitri too. Sort of wide-eyed, in the latter two cases. Wary and petrified. Still disbelieving of his whole … his whole thing. His presence. His lack of violence. Tynan wondered distantly what sort of rumours were currently swirling around base. Between Dodge and Aeolos and Leon, there could be any number of things being said.

“… Could go over the wall,” Dimitri ventured finally. Glancing between him and a silent Daud worriedly. “Rooftops. Since you’re … since you’ve got a mark. Tallboys are a bit of an issue, but you’re … Um. If you managed the Tower, you’re … probably fine.”

He’d probably be fine anyway. She could see the conviction. The boogeyman was always fine.

But that was … slightly beside the point.

“No,” she said softly. Oddly enough that the Lord Protector looked at her. Daud, too, but it was the Protector who figured it out faster. He had … more experience of that tone from her. At least recently. He straightened slightly. Denial already on his face. She rode right over him. “We want a ground route. Since I’m … Since I’ll be coming.”

“_No_,” said Daud, at exactly the same moment Leon growled: “You will in your eye!” But she wasn’t looking at them. She was looking at him.

He’d … paused. In his rejection. He’d stopped to think about it. Weighing his own hypocrisy, maybe. Or just gauging her determination. He tilted his head in silent question. His eyes … skimmed lightly over her arm. She scowled at that. Tugged it close. But set her chin.

“I’m with you until we know what happened to Sam,” she said bluntly. “I’m not … I know I’m a liability. I’ll keep back. Keep out of the way. But I need to know what happened to him.”

He’d sung her whaling shanties in her sleep. Found her a stove to make tea with. He smelled like smoke and wet wool, and sounded like home. He’d asked her to look after him. The Lord Protector. He’d trusted her for it. She wasn’t done until she knew what happened to him.

Which was … something he seemed to understand. The Protector. A reason he seemed to accept. His expression softened slightly. Swung back towards desperately sad.

He didn’t question her ability. Tell her she was maimed and crippled and useless. Tell her it wasn’t safe. They were all true, of course, but he didn’t mention them. They’d been true of him too, and they were down one High Overseer and one Lord Regent in spite of it. Instead, he only said: 

“You know if we go out, we might not come back. I’m not sure I can carry you right now.”

She laughed. “I’m pretty sure that’s true of everyone these days,” she noted bitterly. It was, really. Nobody was safe setting foot outside anymore. Hadn’t been for a while. “And … don’t worry. I swear I’ll do my best not to need you to.”

He’d done enough. More than. She wouldn’t make him carry her all the way.

“Tynan,” Daud said softly. Calling her attention back to him. She … winced faintly. Flinched. But he didn’t … look angry. Or betrayed. Or anything, really. Only strange. Only thoughtful.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered. “I’m really sorry. I owe him too.”

Daud looked at her for another moment. Weighed her silently. And then _sighed_. Scraped a palm across his face in tired exasperation.

“I suppose we’re taking the sewers, then,” he said ruefully. “My apologies, Lord Protector. It seems you’ll be having an escort. One medic, at least. To see that she doesn’t lose the _rest_ of that arm. And you’ll pardon me if I don’t want to let them out unsupervised.”

He did look at the Lord Protector as he said it. Warily. Tiredly. More questioning than his tone would have suggested. But the Protector didn’t bridle. He watched them oddly. Almost softly. And inclined his head gracefully. 

“The sewers, then,” he conceded. And huffed faintly. “As if I hadn’t seen enough of them.”

\---

It was odd to watch him move. To move _beside_ him. He’d knocked her out for Holger Square. She’d only seen the aftermath of everything else. It was … strange. To see the masked nightmare in motion at last.

He was … cautious. It surprised her. He was stiff and wary and always alert. He went high as a matter of instinct. Kept Daud and Leon in his peripheral vision as much as possible. Circled and considered options. Fled if he had to. 

Moved, in general, like a man who knew he was hunted.

It _shouldn’t_ surprise her. She’d known from the start that he was broken. But it was … strange to see it. Strange to finally understand it.

Which … wasn’t to say he wasn’t deadly. That he couldn’t be. She’d seen that, too.

There was a witch in the sewers. A mad witch, trying to turn a man into a stew. To boil him alive and make magic of his bones. Of course there was. And the man was _Slackjaw_. His ally. A man he halfway trusted the honour of. The witch had wanted him to let it happen. Let her murder him. Tynan could have told her how likely _that_ was.

She didn’t know if he’d fully _meant_ to kill her. His bow used sleep darts. But the witch had …

Tynan had darted out to get Slackjaw unlocked. While the other three handled the _mad, teleporting witch_. Who could turn into rats. And couldn’t die. She’d slipped around the room and tried to get the gang lord unlocked. Out of … something. Fellow feeling? Half loyalty, to the man who wanted to spare them both? Something, anyway. She’d gone out to try and free him.

She’d turned, as the stocks released, and found the witch _right there_. Blind eyes and stinking breath. One hand, almost a claw, inches from Tynan’s … from her arm. Her stump.

“Been gnawed on, dear? Pretty gold masks to eat at you, hmm?”

Tynan’s heart had stopped in her chest. She’d stumbled back. Into Slackjaw. Who, to his credit, had tried to catch her. Tried to get a numb arm around her to ward the witch off. Tynan’d raised her bow. Wishing it was her knife, but they hadn’t expected a teleporting enemy. She’d gone for range. She’d tried to get a bolt off.

Then the Lord Protector was there. The metal skull from Holger Square, spinning the witch to face him. A folding blade had unfurled by raw instinct across a witch’s throat. 

Daud, landing from a traversal only moments behind him, had caught the spray of blood across his arm and shoulder. Almost the face, except that he’d dodged back instinctively. And then stood there, startled. While the corpse crumpled. Staring at him in shock.

He wasn’t alone. Even Leon, emerging from the furnace room upstairs, looked vaguely stunned.

The Lord Protector took a step back. Away from the corpse. His breath unsteady in his chest. Tynan stepped after him. Remembering, vividly, a night-time conversation in a bare wood room. A man trying and failing to find reason for murder.

Remembering, too, the distant sight of a man trying desperately to defend his Empress.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Reaching towards him. Her stomach knotting. “I’m _sorry_.”

He’d looked at her. A masked face tilting, glass eyes staring out at her. He’d stared at her blankly for a second. And then his sword furled jerkily. A flicked wrist to shake the blood off. He’d stowed it away and cleared his throat.

“Are you hurt?” he’d asked hoarsely. Looking at her and Slackjaw. “Are you all right?”

\---

The bodies in the courtyard turned out to be Lydia and Wallace, in the end. His lord hadn’t been magnanimous after all. It was spite, not mercy, that saved Cecelia. Spite and good luck. And courage. From a servant woman who took her last chance to spit in her master’s eyes as she died.

The _Admiral_ had been magnanimous. Towards Callista. How very fucking kind of him.

It was odd how much it shook Tynan. The bodies. They were … nothing to her. No one she’d known. She’d heard their names once or twice. Sam, worrying that she’d be found. Confident that Lydia and Cecelia wouldn’t reveal her. But they didn’t really mean anything to her. She’d seen a thousand bodies. _Made_ a good few. It was … strange how badly they affected her. She stood beside them hugging herself. While the watchmen snored around her.

She’d … gone soft, she thought. Worse than maimed, worse than useless, she’d gone _soft_.

Like Daud.

They’d thought it. All of them. These past six months, watching him fade away around the edges. Watching him find reasons and excuses not to murder. He’d seen something when he killed the Empress. Felt something when he put his blade through her chest.

Now Tynan … felt it too.

Not a blade, for her. Not a body. Arms around her, instead. Pulling her up, holding her in her agony. Holding her together while she lay dying. A voice in the darkness finding reasons not to murder. A broken, gentle man, trying to spare her. A bitter enemy, trying to keep her safe.

The Amaranth nosed warily in to shore. Signalled in, but wary still. Piloted by a cautious, sensible man. A _decent_ man. Who’d managed to stay alive.

“… Hullo Corvo,” said Sam, to the figure standing waiting on the shore. The stooped, weary man on the dock. “I knew you’d be back. I knew you’d make it out. Doesn’t pay to bet against you, huh?”

The Lord Protector smiled at him. A slow, relieved thing. Creeping across his face.

Sam frowned. And bit his lip before stepping slowly out of his boat.

“I’m, ah,” he said, rubbing his neck uneasily. Coming to a sad, shamed halt in front of the man. “I’m real sorry, Corvo. Don’t know how to tell you how much so.”

Tynan felt her breath catch in her throat. Felt something lurch in her chest. A strange, nameless fear. 

The Protector weighed him for a moment. Blinked at him in faint confusion. Then his smile softened. Went crooked, went sad. He stepped forward wordlessly, and wrapped his arms around Sam. Tugged him, stiff and startled, into his chest.

Sam faltered for a moment. Surprised. Confused. Then he laughed softly. And hugged the Protector back.

“It’s good to see you too, Corvo,” he murmured. “I’m glad to see you too.”

\---

Daud cornered the Lord Protector before he left. Well. Not cornered. That tended not to be safe. But he … arranged to be near him. On the dock, during a quiet moment. Clearly wanting to talk. The Protector allowed it. Tynan listened from over the wall.

“For what it may be worth,” he said softly. “I truly am sorry. I knew … the moment I killed her. That I’d broken something. Inside and outside of myself. That I’d destroyed a life and a city for little more than coin. That it’s all I’ve ever done. I’d take it back if I could. I’m … sorry.”

He meant it honestly, Tynan thought. Deeply and honestly. It wasn’t enough.

“She was … the light of my life,” the Lord Protector said thickly. Staring out over the river. “Not an Empress. Not to me. She was Jessamine. Only Emily could matter more. It’s not … I don’t know if it’s something I’ll ever be able to forgive. I’m sorry.”

_Sorry_. Fucking _sorry_. Tynan bit her lip and shoved her last hand against her mouth.

Daud sagged too. Flinched. But rallied himself quickly enough.

“Do you need help?” he asked roughly. The practical. When all else failed, always the practical. “With the lighthouse. Do you need help?”

The Lord Protector actually hesitated. For … any number of possible reasons. But shook his head. After a minute.

“I don’t think yours is a face Emily will want to see,” he said softly. Almost apologetically.

Daud … took that on the chin too. Took that stoically. “What can we give you, then? What do you need us to do?” 

If the man said ‘nothing’, Tynan thought she might scream. Maybe Daud too. A pair of useless, maimed assassins. Inside or out. Gone soft.

But he was gentler than that. The Lord Protector. He offered cruel mercy, and false hope.

“… If I fail,” he said quietly. An olive branch. A bitter hope. “If there’s no one left.”

Daud set his jaw, and nodded grimly.

“Yes,” he said. “We’ll see her safe for you. If it … comes to that.”

If there was nothing else left.

\---

And then it was goodbye. He had a daughter to save. There was nothing left but farewell.

She said to Sam, first. It was easier. He smiled at her, warm and relieved. Held out a hand to squeeze hers.

“I’m glad you’re all right now, miss,” he said softly. “I’m sorry we couldn’t take better care of you. The Admiral … I should have seen it sooner. I was a coward. I’m sorry for it.”

She growled. Tugged him towards her. “If anyone was a coward,” she hissed, “it _wasn’t you_. Your Admiral can take a swim in the Mosley canal. And the rest of his collection of poisoners too.”

Sam blinked a bit. And then smiled at her. 

“You’re a fine young woman, miss. If you don’t mind me saying so. Thanks for taking care of him for me. I’m … glad to see you’re all right.”

Tynan flushed dully. “My name’s Tynan,” she said. “_Tynan_, not miss. And it was … owed.”

He chuckled. “Miss Tynan, then. And thanks anyway.”

Ah, fuck them both. They were impossible.

\---

He stood there. Stooped and gentle. About to step into a boat. Another mission, another chance that he might die. Not so long after he almost _had_. But at least he’d seen a doctor this time.

He had blood on his hands, now. Shed for her. She hoped it hadn’t broken anything.

“… I won’t slow you down,” she said. Shrugging lopsidedly as she stepped forward. Gesturing ruefully at the freshly bandaged lump of her arm. “Not this time. Not when it’s her.”

His face twisted. That grief again. He touched his hand to her left shoulder. “It’s not that,” he said. “It was never that. I might be dead if not for you.”

She laughed faintly. Waved that aside. “You might be dead if not for _Sam_,” she corrected roughly. “Not me. The poison wouldn’t have killed you.”

He ducked his head. Smiled ruefully. “Would Daud?”

She winced. That was … a legitimate question. _Would_ Daud have killed him? If there hadn’t … been a debt? She wasn’t sure now. He’d … changed. He’d started going soft months ago. She wasn’t sure whether he would or not. But … either way. It hadn’t been her that stayed his hand. Not her actions. Daud had stopped because of _him_. Because he’d …

Because he’d been merciful. Because he’d saved someone who didn’t deserve to be saved. One of them.

“You know I was there, don’t you?” she whispered. “When she died. Not … I was a sentry. I wasn’t in the gazebo. But I was there.”

“The thought occurred,” he admitted softly. Unflinching.

“… Why did you do it?” she asked finally. Helplessly. Her voice cracking down the middle. “I’ve been … trying not to ask. But I want to know. You didn’t have to rescue me. If you’d killed me in that fucking dog cage, no one would have said you didn’t have the right to it. Even if you didn’t want me dead, you could have just … passed by. _Why_? Why would you …?”

He looked away. Looked sharply to the side. His expression twisting again. Lines carved sharp and painful. His shoulders hunched. After all this time, he still looked somehow _ashamed_. As if it wasn’t enough. As if he’d done something dreadful, instead of … impossibly kind.

“I wanted,” he started. Halting and sad. “I wanted … to do something that didn’t hurt for once. Something that … wasn’t awful. I don’t … know how successful that was. But I’m …”

_Tired_, she thought. Filled in, when his voice failed him. Tired and broken and sad. Fuck. 

She’d been right the first time. It wasn’t anything special. He really was just _soft_.

“You’re an idiot,” she finished for him. Smiling up at him. Ignoring the fact that she was crying slightly. “You’re a stupid fucking idiot, and you were from the start. Right?”

He smiled crookedly. And ducked his head.

“Go save your kid,” she rasped, standing back from him. Shaking _her_ head. “Get out of my sight before I find something to throw at your fucking head.”

She’d look, too. She really would.

He touched her elbow lightly. The bad one. “Be safe,” he said softly. Stepping back into the boat. She shook her head and growled at him.

“Get her back,” she said. “And don’t fucking die!”

\---

Daud came up to her afterwards. Drifted up beside her. And then … didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Almost shoulder to shoulder with her. A tired man in a red coat, and a one-armed woman in a bandage. Two battered, broken assassins. Going soft.

“Hey, sir?” she chanced eventually. Oddly calm. Oddly sure. “You know any jobs for one-armed ex-assassins?”

It wasn’t even her arm. It wasn’t that she was useless. She just didn’t want to hurt people anymore.

And whether or not he felt the same, he was soft enough now not to blame her for it.

“… Not off the top of my head,” he said. Rough and wry. “But if you want, I’ll give you a hand looking for one. Though I’m not sure a reference from the Knife of Dunwall would go very far.”

She laughed. Imagining showing up to a barrister’s or something with a note in his neat, cramped handwriting. Imagining the faces. They’d probably think it was a threat. Some sort of weird, strange blackmail note. Might be worth it, just for that.

“It’d be a good reference, though, right?” Chancing her arm. Her _remaining_ arm. He glanced sideways at her, and she smiled at him. “You’d make me sound impressive?”

He looked at her for a long second. Sideways. Sceptical. She could see the snark on his tongue. But then … then he softened slightly. And said something else.

“Sure,” he said. Looking out over the Wrenhaven. “Not to worry, Tynan. I’ll make you sound impressive.”

She … swallowed. Suddenly. Looking away herself. But she nudged him lightly with her elbow.

“Thanks, sir,” she rasped thickly. “Thanks.”


End file.
